"It must be necessary if they are building it," said the driver. "It
gives the people food."

Nekhludoff became silent, the more so because it was too noisy to be
heard. When they had reached the macadamized road near the prison the
driver again turned to Nekhludoff.

"And what a lot of people are coming to the city--awful," he said,
turning around on the box and pointing to a party of laborers with
saws, axes, coats and sacks thrown over their shoulders, and coming
from the opposite direction.

"More than in former years?" asked Nekhludoff.

"No comparison. The masters are kicking them about like shavings. The
market places are glutted with them."

"What is the reason?"

"They have multiplied. They have no homes."

"And what if they have multiplied! Why do they not remain in the
villages?"

"There is nothing to do there. There is no land."

Nekhludoff experienced that which happens with a sore place--it is
struck oftener than any other part of the body. But it only seems so
because it is more noticeable.